


Full Bodied Apparitions, Baby

by HeythereRichie



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Basically a buzzfeed unsolved au, Dick's is a popular burger chain in Seattle, Eddie sees ghosts basically, Horror, I don't talk about Georgie in this but he's still dead, M/M, Nurse Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, Supernatural Elements, Taco Bell, Twitter, failed attempt at comedy, i created a whole new account to post this trash, just a lot of food in general
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 14:22:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21647431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeythereRichie/pseuds/HeythereRichie
Summary: "Go get that ghost dick, baby, I support you.""God, shut the fuck up and just record, Richie."
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	Full Bodied Apparitions, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you weren't expecting a quality fic, because I wrote this in a taco bell.

“Come on, Staniel, one trip?” Richie begs, giving Stan the cringiest smile he can muster. They’re sitting in a dingy taco bell, one that hasn’t been renovated in like fifty years, perpetually understaffed, and with walls that are absolutely covered in weird stains. It’s also the only taco bell that gives him extra nacho cheese in his burrito, without charge. That pretty much outweighs any negatives Stan has pointed out like “oh, Richie, you have to wait like twenty minutes every time for a staff member to even appear” or “the bathrooms have suspicious dark red stains all over the stalls” or even “oh Richie, there’s a used condom in the corner.” Needless to say, Stan does not order any food. Sucks to be him. Stan uncaps his water bottle and takes a sip, a scowl already forming on his lips as he sits down on the (only slightly) sticky chair. 

“Can’t you ask Bev? She’s more into this stuff anyway.” 

“Bev was already on last episode. I want a new face.” 

“Ben, then.” Richie gives a huff, opening one of his hot sauce packets. He has half a mind to squirt it into Stan’s face, but that wouldn’t really help his case right now. 

“Yeah, I could use Ben, but Ben is an angel. He has no spite, no sarcasm. I need someone to banter with. Ben would listen to whatever I say and be like ‘wow, Rich, you’re doing such a great job.’” Stanley snorts in agreement, and Richie takes an annoyingly large bite of his burrito- making sure to smack his lips extra loud as sour cream drips down the corner of his mouth. Stan makes another face, like he can’t decide if he should just walk away or clean Richie’s mouth himself. He settles on throwing a napkin at him. 

“I have a test tomorrow.” Stan says then, which isn’t actually a no. Richie feels a glimmer of hope. He can’t mess this up. 

“Stan. What does a graduate degree in accounting even do? You don’t need it, Staniel, I’m sure they’ll sense your old man vibes and give you top position right then and there.” Stan gives him a look, opening his mouth to retort. Before he can reply, though, the door opens. They both snap their head to the person walking in, giving each other questioning stares because in the three years that they’ve been coming to this place they have not once seen another customer. Most people usually assume that this place is condemned or something. But the guy that walks in clearly doesn’t think that, marching up to the counter. He’s wearing a pair of scrubs, with a jacket, the dark grey hood covering his face. He taps his foot, like he’s in a hurry, and Richie almost wants to tell him to go elsewhere if he didn’t want to wait. Before he can though, the weirdest thing happens: a worker walks up to the register. Stan’s jaw drops, and he whips his head to Richie, because they are regulars dammit and not once have they bothered to come to the register in a timely manner. The guy orders something from the “healthy” side of the menu, which Richie huffs at. 

“Who even gets a salad from Taco Bell? Like what level of weird health freak do you have to be to feel the need to order a salad at taco bell but, like, also still be willing to go into a taco bell?” He may have said that too loudly, but if the guy hears him he doesn’t really react. 

“Have you ever seen them work that fast?” Stan mumbles to him. They’re both just outright staring at the guy now, which is probably pretty creepy, so Stan shifts a little and turns so that he’s facing Richie, watching the guy through the corner of his eye instead. Richie has made no such attempts to stop his own creepiness. A feeling bubbles up inside of him, makes his stomach feel just slightly queasy, and he still can’t see the guy’s face but he kind of really wants to. It’s like there’s something in him yelling at him, but he’s not entirely sure about what. The guy isn’t even doing anything interesting, he’s just on his phone, turned away from them (Richie pointedly does not stare at his ass, but it’s a little hard). Richie has half a mind to throw something at him, just to get the guy’s attention. He seems to tense, as if he’s just realizing that this place is extremely gross. 

“Turn around, little fucker,” Richie mumbles without meaning to, and Stan raises an eyebrow. “What? You don’t want to see the face of the first customer we’ve ever seen in our taco bell?” Richie’s face feels oddly hot, but he tries to ignore it. He turns away from Stan, just in time to see the guy receiving his food (again, what the fuck, they usually take like half an hour). He rushes out, the worker disappears, and he and Stan are alone again. 

“Maybe you can talk about this in your little show.” Stan mumbles, after a moment of silence, and Richie smacks his arm. 

  
  


Stan agrees to drive Richie there. He does not agree to go inside. 

“I don’t even want you going into that little hellhole, you really think I’m going to?” Stan asks him. “I can barely handle going with you to that stupid taco bell. Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t been served rat meat yet.”

“Stan, stan, stan, how do you know they haven’t already?” Richie tuts, waving a finger. Probably the wrong thing to say right now, but whatever. It’s not like Richie has ever said that right thing. 

“Just be careful, alright?” Stan apparently decides to ignore that comment. “This place genuinely looks like it’s gonna fall over at a light breeze.” Richie turns over to look at the Neibolt house. The whole house looks like it’s rotting away, the lawn is completely dead, and it’s got a general sense of danger around it that makes the hair on Richie’s arms stand up. He’s not going to tell that to dear old Stan though. 

“Well, maybe you should come with me, Staniel.” 

“...I’ll wait nearby, how about that.” Richie gives him two thumbs up, already turning towards the house. Truthfully, Richie is a little nervous. Not necessarily the ghost part, not even the whole condemned part, it’s just an uneasy feeling that he gets whenever he has to do an investigation alone. But his little show is the only thing he’s been actively working on for the past few months, and he really needs it to take off, unless he wants to be stuck serving coffee to the guys at the radio station for the rest of his life. And if he wants it to take off, he needs to explore some haunted locations, not just talk about them. So he squares his shoulders, ignores the little voice in the back of his head, gives Stan a thumbs up and determinedly walks into the house. From the moment he steps inside, he starts moving to set up his cameras. One in each room. He then sets up his own gear, making sure the camera isn’t too close to his face, and he does a quick mic check as he changes the batteries on his tape recorder. 

“You know,” He says to the darkness, ignoring the weird lump in his throat. “it would really suck if you had squatters. Last building I went into, someone stole a camera of mine. Was a bitch to replace. Squatters, man. That’s the real worry in the biz, huh? But I suppose I do have to thank them, they’re probably like... 80% of my evidence.” He laughs at that. As much as he hates to admit it, his previous outings hadn’t exactly yielded any results, and not a single place had felt truly haunted, just creepy. Definitely not enough evidence, fake or otherwise, to work for his new show. So far, the only true dangers had been the conditions of the buildings and the damn squatters. Especially now, while he’s alone, he’s worried. At least with Bev around, he could joke around. And having someone else in the room dispels that weird sense of I’m not alone, because duh, of course he’s not alone Bev is right there! On a less paranormal note, he is unfortunately pathetic in a fight. Sure, he’s 6’3, but he’s also really lanky, and he’s pretty sure that his gangly limbs would get in the way more than help if someone were to attack him. He has a brief image of a squatter running up to attack him and Richie letting out an embarrassing scream, maybe throwing his camera to try and hurt him but completely missing the guy, and just getting slammed into the wall. Or even worse, trying to kick the guy and just somehow tripping over himself. Totally not based on real experiences. Shaking his head, he double checks that everything is on and batteries are full, and then he turns on the camera 

“HELLOOO, GHOSTS!” He yells, plastering on a grin. “Trashmouth is here, and your night is about to get a lot better.” Ok, not the best opening, but it’ll do for now. He’s still building his brand, and there’s a magical little thing called editing. He makes his way up the stairs, ignoring the loud creaks they make, and makes his way to the first bedroom. If Richie remembers correctly, this had been the children’s room - perfect. He grabs the spirit box from his backpack, wincing a little as he turns it on. Richie is pretty sure this particular device is complete bullshit. Sure it’s kind of cool, especially when he gets a response that kind of matches the questions he’s asking, but for the most part it’s just pseudoscience. He sits in the darkness, the loud grating sound of the radio taking up the entire room. 

“Is there a Betty here?” Richie says into the darkness. No response. “Well, if anyone, not just dear ol Betty, is listening, my name’s Richie. And I’m pretty bored here, would love someone to play with.” He takes out a small pink and blue ball. “I heard that the little girl who haunts this part of the building loves to play with balls-” He snorts before he can stop himself. ‘Ha, you know what I mean. I’ve got a bouncy ball right here, if you wanna play?” He tosses it into the air, catching it before it hits the ground. “Wanna play, Betty?” The spirit box makes a noise. “Is that a yes? I’m gonna need a more complete answer if you wanna play?” The spirit box does nothing. Man. he wishes Stan had agreed to go with him. He’s only been on a few, but so far these investigations have proven themselves to be mind numbingly boring, although he also can’t stop his shoulders from tensing up at the slightest noise. It’s a weird mixture, and he isn’t quite sure if he’s used to it yet. When he was with Beverly, it had been easier to forget the involuntary fear and focus on the rational. Not that he doesn’t believe in ghosts, he’s pretty sure he does, but he hasn’t ever actually had an experience that can’t be explained. He lives in a constant state of wanting to see something and also desperately not wanting to see anything. 

After about twenty minutes of silence, he gets up and moves on to the next room. He goes through five bedrooms, the living room, and even one bathroom. By the time he’s done, it’s nearly 5am and Richie still hasn’t caught anything. Just like the last couple of houses. He feels his phone buzz, probably Stan telling him that he’s on his way, so he decides to call it a night. He goes to each room again, grabbing his cameras, silently grateful that none of them had been stolen. It’s in the last room he checks, the bedroom closest to the staircase, that he feels a breeze. 

“Woah, hello,” he says aloud, giving a quick glance to the camera that’s still on. “I just felt a breeze on my right side, was that anyone? Hello?” He holds out his tape recorder. He looks around for any open windows, but doesn’t immediately see any. Another breeze, aimed specifically at his shoulder, it almost feels like something is pushing him. “Holy shit, guys, it happened again. Am I annoying you? Trust me dude, everyone gets annoyed with me. Why don’t you do something drastic, huh? Something that the camera can actually, you know, pick up. Come on, push me down the stairs or something.” There’s a long moment of silence, and Richie relaxes his shoulders. At least that’s something. He might actually be able to make an episode out of this house, if he adds more narrative on the history. “Aright, bye bitches! It’s 5am so I’m outta here!” He grabs the camera from the room, keeping his own camera on just in case, and moves to head down the stairs. 

“What are you looking for, Richie?” A whisper, right next to his ear. He shrieks in a decidedly embarrassing way, leaping to the side. Unfortunately, his foot lands at the edge of the stairs and lose his balance, and he’s tumbling down the stairs. He gives a groan, frozen in place for a moment, before it fully registers that something had whispered to him. No spirit box, not even the recorder. He heard it with his own ears. He sits up, looking around wildly. Had a squatter snuck up on him? No, he would’ve seen someone and holy shit his camera was on. His head snaps up to the top of the staircase, half expecting a floating sheet or something to be up there, but it’s just darkness. 

“Holy shit holy shit holy shit!” He jumps up, which is a fucking mistake because the pain in his ankle suddenly flairs to life, and suddenly he’s swearing for a whole new reason now. 

Stan, bless Stan, is already outside when he limps out.

“Oh come on, Rich!” He yells when he sees that Richie is clearly hurt, but he still moves to help Richie pack his equipment into their car. He’s nice like that. 

“I heard something Stan, I swear I did.” Richie rants when Stan finally starts driving. Richie is waving his arms wildly. “And my camera was on! I caught a voice!” 

“Are you sure?” Stan asks, ever the skeptic. “It wasn’t just your brain playing tricks on you?” Richie shakes his head. “I can show you later, Stan. I swear. Oh shit, Beverly is gonna freak! Ben, too.” He laughs a little. “I’m pumped, honestly. I thought this episode was gonna be boring, and then I get that! Holy shit! Let’s go to that diner, the one just outside of Capitol Hill. Daddy’s craving some celebratory pancakes!” 

“First of all, never call yourself Daddy again. Secondly, I’m kind of more focused on your ankle.” Stan deadpans. Richie looks down and oh yeah, his ankle. He had forgotten for a moment. 

“Probably just bruised.” He reaches out to touch it, hissing a little. “Or maybe not? You know there’s a hospital near that diner, too. Ankle and then pancakes?” 

“Jesus Christ, Rich.” 

  
  


It’s two days later, after he’d finished giving all his bosses at the radio station their coffee, that he makes the discovery. He’s been hunched over his desk for hours now, pouring over footage of empty rooms, making random doodles on the notepad next to him. He’s finally at the moment he fell (he shifts his sprained ankle a little at the memory) and eagerly turns the sound on his headphones up to 100%. And there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just Richie’s dumb face contorting in surprise, and then falling. No voice. What the fuck? He groans, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. He feels weirdly like crying. 

“You good there, Rich?” He turns to see the blurry figure of one Beverly Marsh, leaning back in her rolling chair to look at Richie. When he puts his glasses back on he can see her holding out a lollipop, one already in her own mouth. He takes it begrudgingly. 

“Bev. You’re not gonna believe this, but I heard something last night.” She raises an eyebrow. “I’m serious, I was packing up to go, and I had my mic, my tape recorder, and my camera all on and something whispered right in my ear it was so clear!”

“No way, let me hear.” 

“That’s the thing. It didn’t get picked up. You can see me reacting to it, but it’s completely quiet.” Bev frowns, gesturing for him to move over so she can take a look. He hands her his headphones too. 

“Yeah I don’t hear anything. Maybe you imagined it? Or that shitty Taco Bell you always go to finally gave you some weird disease and you imagined it?” 

“Fuck you, Bev, that Taco Bell is life.” 

“Literally no one except for you goes there. Not even me.” She snorts. Richie almost retorts, almost mentions the boy with the scrubs who came in, but for some reason he doesn’t. “You do seem to have an orb behind you, if that helps. Three, actually.” Bev points her lollipop at the small white specks. 

“Bev, orbs are just dust. I’m not gonna make my debut into the ghost hunting world with dust.” 

“Rich, I love you, but you aren’t going to catch a full bodied apparition on camera for your very first episode. Maybe you should just start with orbs.” She leans back, sliding the laptop over to him. He stares at the tiny orbs. They are a little weird, they seem to stay in place, bobbing just slightly, and they disappear when Richie falls. But they could also just as easily be smudges on the camera, or a weird lighting effect. Richie supposes he could point them out, if only to make fun of them. He closes the recording, already moving to the next room. The common room, where Richie had spent a good hour trying to get some ghost named Millie to talk to him. Bev continues to watch him, which he tries to ignore, but he can practically feel her green eyes narrowing at him. 

“Unless you want to help me look at empty rooms, you should probably get back to work. How else is the great city of Seattle going to know what we’re doing if you don’t post it on our Twitter page?” 

“Go to lunch with me.” Bev says instead. “We could get actual food, ya know?”

“As much as I cherish our outings, my dear Beverly, I have to work on going through this footage. And I’m pretty sure I have to make tweaks on the script for my Eliza Lam video.” Bev groans, forcibly grabbing his laptop and pushing it gently to the side. 

“ You look like shit, Tozier. How much did you even sleep last night?” At Richie’s shrug, she sighs. “You have to eat, maybe do some actual work from your actual job, and then take a nap when you get home. Just take the day off from this project, alright? There’s a new burger place up on fifth I’ve been wanting to try, if you’re game? ” 

“Aw babe,” He places a hand over his heart. “You know that Dick’s is the only thing I eat.” She snorts. 

“As if everyone in Seattle hasn’t made that joke before.” 

“It’s a classic, Bev. The place is called Dick’s, how can I not?” Bev laughs with him, for a moment, and then her face falls. He frowns, watching her stare... at his screen? 

“Rich?” He looks back at his own laptop, at the footage playing. Richie isn’t in the room, but there’s a vaguely human shadow in the corner, moving slowly across the screen. 

“Holy shit. Guess Neibolt delivered on something after all, huh?”

It’s his fifth cup of coffee, or maybe his sixth. He doesn’t keep track of those things, but Stan usually gives him that disgusted look after four. Stan himself is still nursing his second, a giant textbook and a notebook full of neat handwriting in front of him, but he seems to have ignored his own work in favor of glaring at Richie. 

“Here, look at this.” Richie says, shoving his own laptop over to Stan, who hums. 

“It’s good, Rich.” 

“But is it funny? Or is it trying too hard?” 

“You’re always trying too hard, Richie.” Richie huffs. Grabbing his own notebook from his bag, he flips through the inane notes about his boss (he likes his mocha with extra whip) and random doodles before he reaches his notes on Neibolt. 

“Something’s missing.” Richie finally says, shoulders slumping. “I feel like people’ll get sick of me.” He says that last part more quietly. It’s not something he’ll ever say to Bev or Ben (despite the fact that Ben is an angel), but Stan has been his friend for years. Way longer than Bev, who he met freshman year of college, and Ben, in his third year. He’s known Stan since they were ten. And Stan knows him better than anyone. 

“They won’t.” Stan says, voice soft. “You’re a smart guy, Richie. Trust me, it’s really really good. You turn the depressingly morbid into something fun.” 

“Ha. Maybe that should be our tagline: Turning the morbid into the morefun!” He makes jazz hands, and Stan rolls his eyes. 

“That was terrible, man. Just post your first episode already. What was it on again? Men in black?” Richie nods, pulling up the file he had titled Will Smith Final Draft. 

“It’s ready to go, I guess. So is the aliens one. And I also have a little introduction video, as well. And some short little 5 minute videos on urban legends here. I’m done with the Elevator Game but I haven’t finished the one with the Japanese smiling lady. Needs some more animations and all that. And I need more time to edit these ghost hunts.” Stan only nods, pulling up the YouTube page that Richie had created. Richie’s still not sure about it: he’d spent two months on the title of the page, another month on the design, and then another 2 months on his social media pages. Everything is technically all set, he just needs to publish that first video. Bev had even promised to promote the show on her Twitter, and he might even be able to convince his boss to send out a promo on his radio station’s Twitter. Someone is bound to watch it, it’s just a matter of if they like it. Richie had spent the better part of a year prepping for this moment, agonizing over every detail. It was the most time he’s ever spent on anything really, and it’s definitely the only project he’s ever really cared about. What if it doesn’t go over well? What if people thought he was being too crude? What if they preferred the standard “three bros go in and treat wind blowing over as proof of them getting attacked by the devil” bullshit? What if - oh Stan had already clicked post. Richie stares at the single video on his page, the first video, and he feels himself grin. “Holy shit.” 

“Holy shit.” Stan agrees, giving him a smile. Richie slaps the table, a determined look on his face. 

“Stan, my man, Stan the man, let’s order some fucking pancakes.” 

@BitchinBev : Check out the FIRST episode of Trashmouth’s Terrors with my fave guy @TrashmouthTalks (sorry Ben) 


End file.
